Artist Art Work Opening Show at The Bundy Museum of Art and History Binghamton NY .Oil Paintings by Thomas J Nixon, Show Title Adult Care Giving

Here I go again stepping up to home plate with feet firmly grounded in the dirt covering earth. Every Artist/Batter chooses his or her day . At the end inning and fanfare left to linger behind to a blind eye or death ear, my art work. Opening evening I will bow prostrate with an extended leg and flat back kissing a man made carpet of worsted wool of the finest quality.You the viewer will decide good or bad and decide is it art? Behold hanging on white gallery walls my art work vulnerable and exposing my soul expressed with oil paint  on wood. In a valley surrounded by rolling hills on the third floor of The Bundy Museum my art awaits my your visit. Already I ask why I created the paintings-



-your visit. Already I ask why I created the paintings? My guess is I do not know when to shut up. Being stubborn is not a virtuous quality. From birth day through out life I have never given up painting . I always have something to say with paint and drawing . Using Art as expression for me is an inherent quality giving me the strength and determination to go forward. Perhaps I will live on to paint more with resounding notes left to echo off  the Southern Tiers rolling hills. For now this opening night is my short lived 15 minuets of fame.

                                                            painting detail by Thomas J Nixon

Sunday Thursday

First 5 hours after a morning breaking feathered birds sing a chorus and feed their young dependent fledglings cuddled in beak and Tallon made nests well hidden up in trees. Underway moving traffic east-west on interstate race by leaving rolling rubber steel belted tires spinning beyond imagination wooshing and ringing reverberating through the cool air. Cylinder and piston driven engine noise echoes off the surrounding granite filled rolling hills. Throughout the Southern Tier all hamlets and tributaries, towns, villages and cities are in valleys awaken sleepy-eyed. All the while a commerce never ceasing 24/7 lassoes in a few early birds and ever nimble fingers caress plastic  screens of phones and I Pads. The quest for carbs, sugars, and fats of processed food substances filled with salts and preservatives quickly begins again perhaps never to end throughout the day with the unquenchable thirst signaled by a plastic bottle in hand. A morning misty haze electrified by sunlight becomes ablaze with blinding full spectrum white warm light.  The last lilac blossom aromas now joined by wisteria perfume the air. An open bedroom window covered by lace drapery fluttering sensually like Solomay's vail not covering up much tickles a quivering throbbing flesh. Somewhere a Herrod is passing judgment sentencing mankind to shackles of lifetimes of hard labor. From sunrise to twilight and sundown the lasso around one's neck never loosens. The ball and chain around one's ankle keep one in line of defined boundary. As Sunday spins on to Thursday and twilight makes love with dawn a nightingale sings a territorial song. Cool breezes flit around as a bridal vale lifts to reveal soft supple lips moistened for the kiss of a 5oclock shadow lip and cheek. Thursday Swoopes in downcasting its shadow upon plant life and mankind. The entire world shakes and pressure is released. Man and time continue to die. Sundays and Thursdays are born all over the world again.

                 

Connor Running

Connor runs like wind passing  over sand leaving ripples vibrating sunshine back into the atmosphere of blue cradled  by darkness absorbing bright white and yellow stars passing through our universe colliding amongst dust particles dancing in broken patches of sunlight piercing canopied forests and rock  remains and bones of dinosaurs  long ago .